


Ye Olde Wingfic

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Kidfic, Lestrade mentions so far, M/M, Mycroft is a Softie, Teenlock, Wings, cursing, harry is rebellious, john liked danger since he was a kid, john's dad is an asshole, so did sherlock, twenties!lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8489974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: this is like a year late?? thank nano i guess





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rumbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumbelle/gifts).



Sherlock walked among the other ten-year-olds in his class. It was after summer break and most of them, well, all of them, actually, had their wings already. They were talking excitedly and stroking. Their new appendages. They all knew each other from the previous year and were admiring each other's new wings. Sherlock was nearly eleven now, and the space between his shoulder blades was still bare. He watched one boy, John Watson, display his hospital-waiting-room-white wings to some girl. Her own powder blue wings shifted daintily. She liked him, then. Sherlock glared at her and sat down in his chair. He pulled out his book and did his best to sulk in the giddy atmosphere.

He had been to every local doctor. None of them knew why his wings hadn't come in yet. Mummy and Father had then seen to it that he see the very best doctors abroad. He was poked, prodded, injected, shocked, and sliced experimentally so many times he couldn't keep straight which doctor had given him which scar. Most children had their wings come in on their birthday. Weeks later, Sherlock was still wingless. A month passed, and that's when the visits started. Sherlock could now identify hospital codes better than some interns and had calculated which magazines were most popular in the waiting rooms he'd visited (Highlights for children, Lifestyle for adults). He sat at his desk now and rubbed at his shoulder blade, hoping to feel a nub, the end of a feather poking out of pore, something, anything.

There was nothing.

"Hey." A boy sat down across from Sherlock's desk. Sherlock looked up. It was John Watson. The boy's wings folded over the back of the chair and wavered back and forth. Nervous.

"Come to make fun of me?" Sherlock eyed the boy. Mildly intelligent, kind by nature, easy to make friends. Still, Sherlock knew to be careful. Even some of the nicest students had made fun of his bare back.

"No," John said.

"Then why are you here?" Sherlock's tone was full of menace; John's wings shifted their position. Uncomfortable.

"You were sitting alone." John's face looked... sincere. Sherlock checked his wings. Shy.

"So?" His own shoulder blades rolled under his skin against his will.

John didn't say anything. When he did, he ignored the question completely. "What are you reading?"

"You wouldn't understand it." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Try me."

"Advanced physics. It's a college textbook I took from my brother Mycroft."

"Oh. Have you read Harry Potter?"

"No. What is it?"

"You don't know what Harry Potter is?" John looked elated. He pulled a thick book from his bag. A bookmark was placed a third of the way in. "It's about this kid named Harry who's a wizard but he didn't know it because his aunt and uncle were mean and he didn't have parents because they died and--"

"Sounds dull and predictable," Sherlock said, and opened up the textbook.

"Fine," John said. "But you're missing out."

"I honestly doubt it," Sherlock replied. John didn't say anything, so Sherlock looked up. John was bent over his book, his finger tracing each line as he read it.

He could like this John Watson.

At the end of the school day Friday, John came up to Sherlock, wings tucked (nervous) behind his back.

"I was wondering if you- if you wanted to come over," he asked.

Sherlock looked at his book, then his watch, then back to John. "Sure," he decided. "No-one's going to miss me anyways."

John's wings relaxed, and then the tips flared out some. Concerned. But John didn't ask, so Sherlock didn't specify why he wouldn't be missed.

-

The next day, John sat down at his table and read until class started. Sherlock continued to read while John took notes on things Sherlock had known since before preschool.  
-  
"John," Sherlock said. "I need a favor."

"What do you need?" John replied immediately, almost eagerly, Sherlock thought.

"I have an idea. And I need your help."

"Okay. What is it?"

"Just meet me tomorrow under Stone Bridge after school."

"What time?"

"Four," Sherlock said.

"Okay. See you there."

"Bye. And John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

At three-fifty, Sherlock arrived at the bridge. At four-oh-six, John arrived by foot.

"What's your idea?" John asked.

"I thought..." Sherlock looked at the bridge. "People say sometimes shock makes wings come out. So I thought, maybe..."

John stared at him a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows. "You want to..." he looked up at the bridge. "And..?"

"Jump, yes."

"No. No way. What if it doesn't work?"

"That's why you're here. You'll catch me."

"No, I won't. Because you're not jumping."

"It's perfectly safe, John."

"What exactly is your meaning of safe?"

Sherlock shook his head and turned away he took the side steps two at a time, avoiding John's eyes.

"You're really gonna do it, aren't you?"

Sherlock reached the top and walked to the center of the bridge. John positioned himself in the corresponding place on the pavement and spread his arms. His wings fluttered and re-settled on his back. Anxious, determined.

"Ready?" John called up.

Sherlock touched his shoulder blades again. Still nothing. He stepped up on the ledge and drew his arms out like wings. He gasped a breath in and stepped off.

Twenty feet. That's how tall the bridge was. That left him fifteen or sixteen feet before he hit John. Sherlock's feet left the ledge and his stomach launched into his chest. Air rushed by on either side of him, helpless to slow his descent. John was looming unsettlingly close when Sherlock felt a tug between his shoulder blades.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock felt burning, ripping pain slash through his back. A grin lit up his face before he realized that he didn't know how to fly.

He rolled his shoulders and two massive black shapes whipped by his face. He stuttered in the air, trying to slow his descent. Below him, he saw John poising for his crash. A gust of wind blew toward him and knocked him off whatever balance he had and he spiraled left. He couldn't see; the wind stung his eyes and he clenched them shut, waiting to hit the ground.

Instead, a solid, small body slammed into his side and leveled them out. John's wings flung over them and brought them to the ground. They hit a little hard and stumbled forward. John toppled over and Sherlock fell next to him, face first. They lay there for a few minutes, panting. When Sherlock could breathe again, he flexed his shoulder blades.

He had his wings.

He sat up and experimented with them, moving each individually and touching them. They were shiny and black and contrasted against his pale white skin.

"Sherlock, your wings," John whispered. 

Sherlock grinned and looked up. John's own wings, like shaped metal, brushed his.

"I want to try them out," Sherlock said, and stood. He flapped them against his back and tried running and jumping. His center of gravity and balance were different. It was strange and exhilarating and fantastic.

"You need to go home," John said. 

Sherlock looked at him, brow knit in confusion. John always wanted to try new things.

"Why?"

"I need to get home soon or dad'll be mad. And you scraped your chin."

Sherlock touched his chin, and his fingers came away sticky with blood. "Fine."

He trudged back over to John. "We can walk home together."

The two of them did, wings brushing as they walked. Sherlock was still enthralled with the new addition to his body and was excited to learn which parts did and didn't have sensation. He bombarded John with questions about their uses and abilities.

"I've only had mine for a few months, Sherlock. You'll know more than me in a week."

"Probably true. But you know more now."

"You can use them to pick things up sometimes. And you have to tuck them to your body when you swim."

"Interesting."

They had reached Sherlock's house, and John stared at it in awe.

"That's your house?"

"Yeah."

"It's so big."

"I guess so."

"Mine's like a quarter of that size."

Sherlock shrugged. "Does it matter?" He watched John- his wings fell, and Sherlock didn't understand why.

"A little bit."

"Oh. Well. I'll see you tomorrow?"

John smiled. "Yeah. Bye, Sherlock."

"Bye!"

Sherlock walked up his front steps and into the house. Immediately, the nanny fell upon him, shrieking about his wings. Hers- pale pink and dusty grey near the ends- fluttered outwards and drew around him. Then, just as quickly, she started fussing over his chin.

"What did you do?" she cried, ushering Sherlock upstairs to the bathroom with the First Aid kit, wingtips pushing him up the stairs.

"I jumped off a bridge," Sherlock said triumphantly.

"You what?" she all but screamed. Her wings 

"It's fine. John was there. He caught me," Sherlock clarified.

"Who's John?" she asked, dabbing a horribly stinging wipe at his chin.

"His  _friend,_ " Mycroft said, voice dripping with distaste, ruffling his waxy ash black wings in the doorway.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, the enthusiasm falling out of his voice. "What do you want?"

"I simply wanted to congratulate you on your new appendages," Mycroft said. 

"Thank you," Sherlock said, glaring at Mycroft. The nanny had fallen silent.

"I must caution you, however," Mycroft said. "Sentiment is not an advantage."

"Thank you for your input, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Now please leave."

Mycroft spun and stalked away, wings fluttering behind him. Sherlock realized his own wings were curled behind him, arched up over his shoulders. It seemed defensive, which he supposed he was. He settled his wings back as the nanny smoothed a plaster over his chin.

"Dinner's in a few minutes," she said quietly, previous anger dissipated. "Your parents will be home by nine or ten. Don't tell them you jumped off a bridge."

Sherlock nodded and dashed to his room, where he stretched and flexed his wings until the dinner bell rang.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well i need 500 words to catch up on nano (nanowrimo.org btw guys) so here's another chapter

Sherlock was dismayed at his parents' reactions. His mum had glanced at them, then looked to his dad and asked why both their children had black wings. Her own were white with the lightest green tinge where they met her shoulder blades, and they slumped when she talked to his dad. His dad barely even looked at his wings. Instead, his- white, and dark red where they met his shoulder blades- drooped and he turned away to retreat into the bedroom. His mum followed him, and Sherlock put his head in his arms on the table, where he had been finishing dinner with Mycroft and the nanny. He found that his wings had the added benefit of being able to curl over his head and arms to encase him in darkness. He heard the clatters of dinner being cleaned up around him but stayed in the cave of his own making until the nanny tapped on his back.

"Sherlock," she said quietly. "It's time to get you to bed now."

Sherlock shook his head and his wings ruffled.

"If it helps," the nanny whispered, "I think your wings are magnificent."

Sherlock let his wings unfold and sat up slowly. "Really?"

"Of course. Very dramatic. They fit you."

Sherlock smiled. "Thanks."

He stood and walked to his room, where he passed out. The day's events had tired him more than he realized.

~

The next day, Sherlock walked proudly into school, wings high and mirroring his pride. But as soon as he entered the main hall, his shoulders and hopes of acceptance fell.

Three boys, clearly popular, jumped at the chance to jeer at him.

"Look at the freak!"

"Freak got his wings! They're black!"

"Serves you right, freak! Late wings are never good!"

The one with brown hair seemed to be the leader, and one with blond hair followed quickly behind him. The third, a strawberry blond, was the least independent of them all, but followed the furthest back.

Sherlock slumped forward and let his wings crowd over his shoulders to protect him. He trudged to class and collapsed into his desk, putting his head down. But less than a minute later, John interrupted his sulk with a tap to his back.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"I hate my stupid wings."

"Why? They're so cool. No one has black wings. They're incredible."

"Really?" Sherlock smiled weakly. "You really think so?"

"Of course. How's your chin?"

"Fine. Doesn't even hurt."

"That's good. What are we learning today?"

"We're starting some horrid play in English. Everything else is review."

"You mean practice?"

"Same thing. Dull."

John grinned.

~

At recess, he and John played tag. When Sherlock was with John, he couldn't hear the jeers of his classmates anymore. He wasn't sure if they stopped or he just ignored them better, but he couldn't hear them and that was good enough for him. John sprinted and let his wings lift him into the air a bit with every bound, and Sherlock was entranced with the simple athleticism of the other boy. He tried to lift himself off the ground with the ease John did, and eventually John ended up coaching Sherlock on how to fly in different patterns until the teachers snapped at them because it was dangerous. Sherlock and John had held it together until the teacher turned away, and then dissolved into laughter. Sherlock watched his friend's wings shudder with humor around him and grinned wider. Mycroft knew nothing. John wasn't a danger to Sherlock, and he never would be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ahhh more nano  
> these summaries are great  
> anyway, the last day of school.

It took Sherlock a few weeks after his wings appeared to notice that John no longer talked to the girl with powder blue wings. John didn't talk to anyone as much as he talked to Sherlock. He was still well-liked in the class and had lots of friends, but whenever they chose seats or had lunch or went to recess, John picked him over the other kids in their class. It made Sherlock feel unexpectedly warm inside.

As John talked less to other people, he also talked more to Sherlock. They, after calculating routes and realizing there wasn't a practical way to walk to school together, decided to meet outside school every day and walk in together. Sherlock suspected it was because of the day after he got his wings, but never brought it up. John met Sherlock with smiles every morning, and Sherlock found that he was the happiest he had been in ages. 

On weekends, when they could, they met at the local park and they learned how to fly together. Sherlock had caught up to John's skills quickly (as John had expected), so they spent their time trying to outdo each other with flips and tricks. A little after Sherlock's wings had come in he had undergone a several-inch growth spurt, sending him half a head over John, which John declared an unfair advantage even though it hampered his balance. Sometimes they drew a small crowd of littler kids who hadn't gotten their wings yet. No one called Sherlock a freak.

In fact, Sherlock realized no one had called him a freak in some time. He attributed it to John and his constant presence at Sherlock's side.

The year drew to a close quickly, and before long it was time for the end of year party. John met Sherlock before school, and his smile was a little sadder than usual. They walked in, wading through students making summer plans and exchanging phone numbers. At the class party, some students got their yearbooks. Sherlock got one, but John didn't. Instead, John had a wad of folded paper for signatures. Sherlock looked around the classroom even though he didn't need to to know that John would get exponentially more signatures than he would.

"Here," he said, holding out his yearbook to John.

"I can't take that," John said.

"You have friends that are going to sign it. You deserve it," Sherlock said, still holding the book out.

"You have friends too. Plus, you paid for it."

"My mum won't even notice. You have plenty more friends. Take it, John. I insist."

John reached out slowly and closed his fingers around the book. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged and took John's wad of paper. He extracted one piece and held it out. John smiled and scrawled his signature over the paper.

 

> _Have an awesome summer!_
> 
> _Your best friend forever,_
> 
> _John H Watson :)_

 

Sherlock gazed at the signature as John was approached by other classmates, switching books and penning names. John's scrawl was messy and left-slanted, a little smeared where his hand had brushed over the blue pen.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

A girl that had spoken to Sherlock a few times since John had become his friend was looking up at him- she was a bit shorter than Sherlock. Her pale orange-pink wings lingered at her sides, tips crossed over each other. Nervous.

"Will you sign my yearbook?" She held out her book to Sherlock, who took it and flipped open the front cover. A few names decorated the front, but not nearly as many as John was getting. Sherlock glanced up to see John surrounded by a group of boys, each holding their books out. John looked like a celebrity.

Sherlock swiped his name across the page with a black rollerball and gave Molly his paper on top of her book.

 

> _Have a great summer, Sherlock!_
> 
> _020-5555-1234_
> 
> _Molly Hooper <3_

 

Sherlock stared at the signature in bubbly neon pink pen underneath John's. It looked wrong. And the heart at the end? Imbecilic.

John returned with his yearbook, beaming at Sherlock.

"You didn't sign my book!" He held it out to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and opened the front page. It was chock full, and he had to search for empty room before flipping to the back. A few signatures were there too, but he could at least fit his name. He wondered for a moment, what to write. Eventually he settled for a copy of John's signature.

 

> _Have an awesome summer!_
> 
> _Your best friend forever,_
> 
> _W Sherlock S Holmes  _

 

He swooped an underline under his name and handed the book back. John grinned at Sherlock's signature.

Before he could say anything, the teacher shushed them and they had to sit down. 

~

"Finding Dory is abhorrent."

"It's cute, and it's for kids."

"It's still abhorrent."

"I still think the sharks are funny."

"You would."

"What's that supposed to mean? And aren't you supposed to go that way home?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll walk home with you today."

"Are you sure? I mean, you don't have to."

"It's fine. I want to."

"Oh. Okay." John's wings curled in a little bit. Uncomfortable.

"If you don't want me to, I don't have to."

"No, it's fine, Sherlock. My house just isn't like yours, okay?"

"Obviously."

They walked in silence until Sherlock could hear yelling in the distance.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, you can go," John said.

"I mean, if you want me to--"

"Yeah. Just- just go. You don't want to be here, trust me."

"I- okay. Do you want to meet at the park tomorrow?"

John seemed panicked. Sherlock could hear the voices in the distance growing louder. "Yeah, I'll see you then."

Sherlock stayed, stunned, on the sidewalk as John sprinted away from him.

As Sherlock stood, the voices grew louder. One was definitely female, while another was male, adult.

"Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do? I'm fucking leaving! You can't fucking control my life!"

"Harriet, get back here! I won't stand for that bullshit in my house!"

"Bullshit? You mean my girlfriend? Because I'm gay? Is that bullshit?"

"Harriet Marianne Watson! Get the fuck back here!"

"It's Harry!"

A teenager, wearing all black, stormed toward Sherlock. There were chains attached to her black skinny jeans that swung as she walked. Her black flannel flapped behind her with her wings- a firey red.

Sherlock, in a rare fit of confidence, stepped into her path.

"Are you John's sister?"

"Yeah. Who are you?"

"His friend."

"Get the fuck out of here, then," Harry said. "You won't see him the same way." And she continued down the sidewalk.

Sherlock took off down the sidewalk toward John's house. It wasn't hard to find. A man in a stained wifebeater and sweatpants, clutching a crushed beer can, shouted profanity down the road. His wings, a sickly brown-orange, were flung out and up behind him, tips pointed to the sky. John was tugging on the back of his shirt, trying to get him back into the shabby house.

"Dad, dad, come on, let her go."

"Get the fuck in the house. Hey, what the fuck are you staring at?"

John's gaze snapped up to Sherlock, eyes wide and terrified. Sherlock didn't know what to say.

"John-"

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John's wings flared out on either side.

Sherlock had never seen his friend so angry. His own wings slunk to his sides. "I said, what do you want?"

"Who the fuck is this, John? Fucking black wings. Fucking poof, I bet. I'm going the fuck inside." The man- John's father, Sherlock ascertained- banged into the house, the screen door slamming behind him.

John, wings drawn up over his shoulders, stalked toward Sherlock.

"I thought you were going home."

"I didn't."

"Clearly."

"Do you- do you want to come to my house for a while? No one will mind."

"Yeah, one sec." John dashed into the house and returned a minute later with his school bag. "Do you mind if I stay overnight? I didn't ask."

"Yes, yeah- that's fine. It won't- you won't get in trouble?"

"Nah. He won't even remember in the morning."

"Okay."

They walked back to Sherlock's house in silence, and when they got to Sherlock's house the nanny greeted them at the door.

"Sherlock Holmes! Where have you been?"

"I-"

"This must be John." Mycroft crowded the nanny out of the door.

"Mycroft. Don't you have class or government things?"

"I'm on break," Mycroft sneered. "Do come in, John. It's dinnertime."

They had pasta, and John seemed to be reigning in his excitement, and Sherlock couldn't fathom why. After dinner, they retired to Sherlock's room and watched telly until the nanny interrupted them to make them finally go to sleep. She unpacked a sleeping bag for John and rolled it out next to Sherlock's bed. After ensuring John was fine, she left them alone for the night and turned off the light.

A few minutes afterward, John whispered in the dark.

"Thank you for today, Sherlock."

"No problem. Anytime for you, John."

John shifted in his sleeping bag and Sherlock heard his wings rustle and flap.

"You're uncomfortable."

"I'm fine, really."

"No you're not." Sherlock threw the covers back. "Come here."

After a moment of reluctance, John stood and climbed into bed with Sherlock. They settled on opposite sides of the bed, and Sherlock listened to John's even breathing.

"Thank you."

"Not needed."

They fell asleep next to each other, and Sherlock slept for longer than he had in ages.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk i kinda like bad home life john and neglected sherlock so


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i guess i'm writing this now  
> does rumbelle even use ao3 anymore? rumbelle lmk if u do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realize this is prob v confusing so if u have questions pls comment thx

Sherlock didn't want John to go home the next day. He tried to keep John at his house as long as he could, offering video games and telly and the park. He even promised deductions, which intrigued John and entertained him for a while, but John was adamant.

"I can't, Sherlock, I need to see if Harry got home last night."

"That's not your responsibility."

"It kinda is. It's okay, though. She'll be moved out in a couple years."

"At least let my nanny drive you home."

"Thanks, but no. My dad'd have a fit if he saw your car in our neighborhood."

"Okay. Can I walk you back?"

"No."

Sherlock walked John to the end of the driveway anyway, and said a very resistant goodbye to him. Harry had been right- he couldn't see John the same way he had before.

~

Sherlock didn't see much of John that summer. They met in the park the first day of summer, and a few times after that. But most of the time, when Sherlock called John's house, no one answered. He wanted to go check on John for himself, but he knew John would be mad at him, so he didn't. The first few times he met John in the park, he asked John if he wanted to sleep over again. John said no each time, and Sherlock didn't press it.

Sherlock clearly remembered the last time he had met John in the park. John's wings were drawn back and he didn't seem very interested in flying. He watched Sherlock for a few minutes, but his disposition dulled Sherlock's excitement and he sat next to John on the kerb, deductions flowing nervously from his mouth until the park was empty, and then sat quietly until the sun brushed the horizon.

"I have to go."

"Do you want to sleep over?"

"I can't, Sherlock. I already told you."

"Okay."

The sun was half-dipped in the earth when John stood up and said goodbye to Sherlock. Sherlock wanted to start walking with him, but the way John's wings fell and the way his fists were shoved into his pockets warned Sherlock to stay back. He watched John recede into the dim half-light and then stood and walked his own way up the sidewalk to his house.

The next time he called, no one picked up. It took ten calls over three weeks for an answer. 

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, what?" John sounded rushed and breathless. There were shouts in the background. Harry and his father again, Sherlock could tell.

"Can- can you meet me in the park tomorrow?"

"Yeah, maybe. Around four. I'll see you there." John hung up before Sherlock could answer.

The next day, Sherlock arrived at three. He sat at the kerb until five, and John did not arrive. He trudged home in the late afternoon sunlight, wings slack against his back.

~

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

He didn't sleep a lot usually, but tonight he can't sleep at all.

Tomorrow is the first day of secondary school.

He called John last night, but no one answered, like usual. He had endured torture at the primary school- what would secondary be like without John? He knew it wouldn't be without John completely, of course, but they had no plans. He didn't know if he was going to see John before school or even if they were in any of the same classes. The kids at the primary school knew that John was his friend, so they didn't make fun of his wings anymore. But there was a whole group of older kids that didn't know and didn't care. Sherlock didn't have any friends other than John. Except. . .

Sherlock got out of bed and found his improvised yearbook. As expected, no one had noticed its absence. He ran his fingers over Molly Hooper's phone number. He put the paper on his dresser and decided to call her in the morning.

At six-thirty, Sherlock decided it was late enough in the morning the call. He punched in the numbers and waited while the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Molly Hooper?"

"Yeah, it's me. Who's this?"

"It's Sherlock. Do you-" He hadn't planned this out. "Do you want to walk to school with me?"

"Oh, I get driven. But I'll wait for you by the door!"

"Thanks, Molly. I'll see you soon."

"See you then!"

Sherlock hung up and let himself smile slightly. He had at least one friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also pls pray for the us if u live somewhere else the election is tonight and ya girl is writing gay fanfiction save meeeee


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ya im writing two today  
> i need those words and i need to know what happens next too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want this to get happy and gay really fast shit idk what happened my apologies lemme try to brush over some of the sadness

Sherlock met Molly outside of school like she promised. He didn't see John.

"What's your first period?"

"Marsh. Science."

"Me too! C'mon, let's find it."

"It's on the second floor, six down," Sherlock said as they walked inside.

"Boo, you're no fun."

Sherlock looked sharply over, but Molly was smiling. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I was super worried about getting lost anyway. Hey, do we have any other classes together?"

Sherlock looked over the schedule she offered him. "First, third, and sixth."

As Sherlock handed the schedule back, the same group of three popular boys approached them. They had added a few to their numbers that mimicked the leaders as much as the original two.

"Hey, look at the freak! Fucking black wings. Weirdo."

"Yeah, fucking freak! Stupid."

The group laughed and a few pointed.

"Let's go," Molly said, grabbing Sherlock's wrist and dragging him around the group toward the stairs.

"First, third, and sixth, you said? Awesome. I'll meet you at the landing on the main stairs before those." Molly looked over at him and smiled. They had reached first period, and they entered the classroom. There was a seating chart on the board, but Sherlock didn't see that. All he saw were the clinical white wings attached to his best friend.

"John," he called, perhaps a little louder than necessary. John looked up from his agenda and grinned. But he looked tired, Sherlock could see. There were bags under his eyes even as he smiled and waved at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at the board and took his seat across and up two from John.

"Hey," John said when Sherlock sat down. "I haven't seen you much this summer!"

Sherlock bit back a caustic response about John's poor responsiveness. "Yeah. I missed you."

"Me too. Hey, what classes do we have together?"

"All but sixth. That means we have lunch together too."

"Awesome."

The teacher walked in and after a moment, quieted the class. She went over the basic information- syllabus, materials, grading- that was to be repeated six more times that day. Fifty minutes flew by and the bell rang and Sherlock and John walked out side by side. Almost immediately, the morning's incident refreshed.

"Look, freak's a poof!"

"Fucking freak. He's not your friend, blackwing!"

"Personally," John leaned over and spoke quietly to Sherlock, "Blackwing sounds pretty cool. Like a superhero."

Sherlock laughed. "Freak blackwing at your service."

"You're not a freak. But think about it. 'Blackwing, saviour of the planet.'"

"Yeah, right."

The group of boys had been left behind them now, still laughing to themselves while John and Sherlock walked to second. The process repeated after every class, lessening only slightly through the day. Lunch was the worst, so John had secreted them off with their lunches behind the stairs to laugh and talk away from others. After fifth, they parted ways with the promise to meet after school. Sherlock joined Molly in sixth and waited impatiently for class to end so he could return to John's side. The jeers were hardly puffs of air to walk through toward the doors with John as a reward. And there he was, smiling at Sherlock. They walked toward Sherlock's house like usual, splitting reluctantly and deciding to meet before school the next day. As Sherlock walked into his house, he felt like he could breathe again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's still not gay!! another chapter stupid brain

The first semester passed much too quickly, in Sherlock's opinion. At the end of the semester, John went out for the rugby team. He sat in the bleachers and watched, floored at John's innate athletic ability. He could barely run without tripping over his too-big feet himself, but John darted and spun across the field, stealing the ball and pushing through others with ease. His size made him a formidable opponent: even though he was short (almost a head shorter than Sherlock now), he was incredibly agile and could duck under his future teammate's arms and around their legs. His hair flew in the wind where it wasn't plastered to his brow with sweat, shirt and shorts muddy and showing off unexpectedly muscular thighs and abdomen. When he came off the field afterward, yelling about making first cuts, Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was proud of his friend, certainly. But there was also something else. Something he didn't know.

"That's fantastic. I knew you'd make it," he managed.

"Thanks. Want to walk home?"

"Of course." Sherlock grabbed his bag and followed John down the bleachers and home.

~

As the year progressed, John got more friends. His rugby friends obviously, plus others. Ones that thought he was cool because he was on the rugby team. Ones that wanted to be on the rugby team.

Girls.

John seemed to like some of the girls. His new friends certainly did. In fact, every boy in the grade except for the blond from the popular boy was interested in girls (Sherlock had passed by them in the hall a few times, enough to notice the blond's overzealous attention to the brunette. Clear crush; pity, the brunette was horribly homophobic). They thought that John receiving female attention was praiseworthy for some reason. Sherlock didn't understand why anyone was so interested in the girls. They were dull and materialistic. The guys that John was friends with were just as bad. He told John, once, what he thought of them, but John told him not to be so mean to other people. He quickly shut up about the issue and didn't bring it up again.

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, this was the opposite of last year. John talked more to other friends in their classes and less to Sherlock. He did still talk to Sherlock, though, almost as much as everyone else combined. And Sherlock didn't mind, most of the time. The guys were dull but overall, harmless. The girls, however.

Sherlock had observed in their other classmates what happened when one of them got a girlfriend. They talked less to their friends and had to devote more time to their girlfriend. Sherlock dreaded the inevitable day John would succumb to that fate.

The third quarter of the next year, it happened.

Following a bland summer and an essential extension of the previous year, a new girl, with pale pink wings and blonde hair, stole John's attention.

Sherlock watched every rugby practice. So did she.

Sherlock was in almost every class with John. So was she.

Sherlock talked to John every day, about a variety of subject. She only talked to John about ruby and shopping. Sherlock didn't know why John liked her so much.

Against his better judgement, Sherlock asked John on the walk home from school one day. He would have asked him at lunch, but John had started alternating between eating with Sherlock behind the stairs and eating with the rugby table (Sherlock had lingered at the end of the table for a few weeks before giving up and eating in the library), increasingly with the rugby team, and it had been one of their numerous days.

"Because she's pretty, Sherlock. And that's what guys do. They have girlfriends. A bunch of the guys on the rugby team have girlfriends."

"Doesn't mean you have to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that you don't have to have a girlfriend because other people do."

"I know."

They reached Sherlock's house and Sherlock started up his driveway without saying goodbye. John didn't either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do you guys want more detail? because i'll be happy to put more in i just wanted to gloss over to the gay
> 
> *after writing* how did it get so angsty???? i didn't mean for this to happen i swear


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: election (bc god knows i'm triggered by the election)  
> well ya'll know how it turned out so ya girl's gonna write some cute gay fanfics and hopefully a couple of people can zone out of this nightmare that's happening

It took two weeks for John to break up with the girl. Sherlock never bothered to learn her name.

Over the two weeks, John had limited how much he talked to Sherlock. Every time Sherlock tried to initiate a conversation, John replied in monosyllabic words until Sherlock shut up. Sherlock didn't know how John felt during the two weeks- he suspected he felt unchanged or happier, because of the girlfriend- but for him, it was agonizing. He had Molly to talk to, but she was terribly dull most of the time, even when she was intelligent. He buried himself in Mycroft's college textbooks and ended up going through four- a history, a math, and two science- in the fortnight.

Two weeks after the tense walk home, John found Sherlock behind the stairs at lunch. He sat down next to Sherlock with his tray on his lap and sighed. 

"I broke up with Amelia."

Sherlock paused for a moment and put down his fifth textbook. "Was that her name?"

"Yeah, it was, Sherlock." John sounded irritated and exhausted. "Like you care."

Sherlock frowned and looked down. "Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"You're right. I didn't try to care. I should have."

"It's okay, really. I know how you feel about that stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Relationships. That stuff. I know you don't care for it. Which is fine, you know." John looked up and smiled. "It's all fine."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond. "Thank you, John." Although John wasn't completely right. He did despise most relationships- the vapidity and shallowness of it all. But John was so much better than all that. He wouldn't mind John being in a relationship if he deserved it. There just wasn't anyone.

"So," Sherlock started. "How did she take it?"

"Remarkably well, actually," John said, seemingly unaffected by the mention of the breakup. He sat up against the wall and took a bite of his sandwich. He smiled and continued. "She said she felt like she was coming between me and you. She was almost happy to let me go."

Sherlock was shocked. John had so many friends. Why would he stick out? 

"That's good, then."

"Yeah, it is." John looked over at him and smiled again. It felt like John was smiling more than usual, and Sherlock couldn't fathom why. Weren't people usually sad after a breakup? He figured he shouldn't mind, given that he had a happy John back.

"When's your next rugby match?" Sherlock asked, hoping to change the conversation topic.

Luckily, it worked and John launched into a detailed explanation about the next game's strategy and lineup. Sherlock listened quietly to John's excited spiel, admiring the sparkle in his bright blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know its fortnight in britain but i'm doing it for nano so two weeks is twice the words  
> sherlock's pining sm and i feel like it's a little unrealistic for their age but eh


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I GOT IT GAY  
> so they finish up 7th and are in 8th grade/end of secondary school at this point if anyone's confused (legit i have to go back and look at other chapters so much)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized i haven't used any of sherlock's deductions and i think i'm gonna go back and add that in

The rest of the year passed quickly, and Sherlock returned to watching all of John's games and practices. They continued to walk home together, and Sherlock found that John was decreasing his days at the rugby team's table and increasing his lunches behind the stairs with him. They talked like they used to before Amelia. Exams came and went, with slightly more stress on John's part, and then it was time for yearbook signings. Like he had the past two years, Sherlock gave John his yearbook and accepted John's quick signature on a piece of notebook paper. Molly also signed it, the same way she had for the past two years. Sherlock preferred John's signature much more, but he didn't mind Molly's. Having another friend was comforting, even if she wasn't half as good as John.

"Sherlock, I'm gonna go over there for a little while, can you watch my bag? The guys are calling me."

Sherlock nodded and John left his backpack to join his rugby mates and pass yearbooks around. Sherlock leaned against the wall by the corner, away from most of the people, creasing and uncreasing his sheet of paper while he waited for John.

"Hey, freak, want to sign my yearbook?"

"Where's your yearbook, freak?"

"Freak probably doesn't have any friends to sign his yearbook!"

Sherlock jerked his head up. He thought this had been over for almost an entire year. He glanced quickly over toward John, who seemed to have not heard. The group, three boys, were the same ones that seemed to relish ridiculing him whenever John was absent. The leader of the group had a new crush, unrequited. Probably causing the recent spur in violence: fear of impotence, even this young. Likely a paternal influence on his life. The other two, still staunch followers, hadn't had any new changes in their life. Just boring, dull followers. The blond one still had a crush on the leader.

"What do you want?"

"I think you know what we want, freak."

Sherlock started to say he didn't; but in the back of his mind, he did. They wanted to humiliate him and the leader, specifically, wanted to regain some sort of power. As soon as Sherlock realized it, they were crowding in around him. No one threw punches; there were teachers monitoring them. But at least two of them delivered sharp kicks to his calves and ankles, and as the leader called them off the blond one stuck a bony elbow into his ribs. Sherlock gasped, leaning against the wall, signature page crushed in his fist. He spurred air into his lungs, waiting for the boys to retreat completely. But the leader paused, just for a moment, and turned back. He grinned wickedly and snatched the paper out of Sherlock's hand.

"John Watson and Molly Hooper. Hooper likes you, obviously." He leaned in closer, centimeters from Sherlock's face. "He's not your friend, freak." He threw the crumpled paper at Sherlock's feet.

"Hey, Jim." The blond grabbed Jim's elbow and tugged. "You need me to do anything more?"

Jim turned. "No. It's settled. Let's go, Sebastian."

The third, who had waited for the other two, stood by for Sebastian and Jim to take the lead and then followed, sneering at Sherlock as he left.

Sherlock leaned to pick the paper up and found it hurt terribly to stand back up.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice brought Sherlock back to his senses. He was bent almost in half, hand still pressed to his ribs. His forehead pointed toward the ground and his shoulders slouched.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Sherlock gasped, shocked at how raspy his voice sounded. "Yeah, fine."

"You're clutching your stomach-- Sherlock, who hit you?"

Sherlock stared at his shoes. He didn't know why he felt so ashamed.

"Sebastian has a crush on Jim," he said instead.

Sherlock expected a blameful response, something to justify the boys' response. But John didn't say anything. Instead, John's fingers touched his chin and tilted his head up. Still, Sherlock's eyes cast down.

"I won't let this happen to you again, Sherlock."

"You were with your rugby mates. It's fine."

John's fingers extended to cup the side of his jaw. His fingrs were rough and callused from playing rugby, but felt gentle and cool against Sherlock's warm face. "No, it's not. No one should harm you, ever. And if they do, I'll repay the favor with interest."

"You don't have to."

"No, I don't. But I want to."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to John's. John's blue eyes were dilated, and although Sherlock knew what to make of it, he was almost scared to. 

"Thank you," he whispered, and he wasn't sure if John could hear it. But John smiled so sweetly Sherlock was certain John had.

The bell rang, and John's fingers slid up and pushed Sherlock's bangs back, sliding through dark curls.

"You need a haircut," John said, smiling. He pulled back and Sherlock straightened his back, the pain having receded from his chest, replaced by a warmer, more welcome feeling.

They waited until the hall had all but cleared of other students, then slowly made their way to the front doors. Once they were past the school property, Sherlock noticed they were walking very so slightly closer than usual. They walked closely usually, of course, today but their shoulders brushed on every step, and sometimes, their hands. On one such brushing, a block and a half from the school, John's hand caught his and laced their fingers together.

Sherlock's heart stuttered and he looked over at John, who was smiling nervously at him. John's wings were tilted toward him (hopeful) but tucked close together (nervous, self-conscioius). He could tell that John was going to ask him if this was okay, or something equally idiotic, so he squeezed John's hand and brushed his thumb over John's knuckle. John glanced at him, grinned, and pointed out a bluebird perched in a tree to their left.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sherlock is confused. i skipped a day of nano. let's see what words i can get out of this

Sherlock didn't know what to think.

Traditionally, when two people held hands, they were romantically linked. But he had seen girls at school holding hands, and they were obviously just friends. John was his friend, but he had never seen two male friends holding hands. In fact, he'd never seen any men hold hands. That meant something, didn't it? 

But-

John had only shown interest in girls in the time they'd known each other. His father was homophobic, and that likely would have transferred into John in some degree. Their school environment, too, wasn't the most accepting, so he didn't know why John would risk coming out (if he even needed to) and suffering the ridicule Sherlock did for what his wings implied somehow.

(In his brief research after it had come up the first time, he couldn't find anything that claimed that black wings indicated an attraction to the same sex. He concluded that it was a baseless cultural assumption and dismissed it, moving on to an experiment comparing one of his feathers to one from a robin.)

Sherlock stewed in his room, occasionally staring at his hand in offense, as if it were his hand's fault that it had held John's and created this predicament. Worse, he couldn't ask John for what seemed like ages. He couldn't call him in fear of his father hearing and school was over so they wouldn't see each other every day.

"Sherlock?"

Mycroft's face ducked into Sherlock's room.

"Dinnertime."

Sherlock reluctantly stood and trudged to the table. His parents were out again, so it was just him, Mycroft, and the nanny.

"Why are you home?" Sherlock asked Mycroft while poking at his mashed potatoes.

"Independent study project. I'm done, so essentially I have a break. I'm preparing for an interview with a small government office, then I'll be out of here again."

Sherlock looked up to glare at Mycroft and inadvertently deduced him. New haircut, four extra pounds, new watch. Holding himself taller than usual (which was saying something), smug smile lingering at the edge of his mouth that had nothing to do with Sherlock because Mycroft hadn't proved him wrong on anything yet. In fact, Mycroft hadn't been antagonistic whatsoever. His forehead was smoother than it normally was, but he looked a bit more tired, like he had missed a few nights of sleep lately.

The fork Sherlock had been using to poke the mashed potatoes clattered to his plate. His wings slackened at his back.

"You-"

Mycroft's eyes widened almost imperceptibly as his wings tensed and he shook his head with only the most minute of movements. His eyes flicked to the nanny, and he shook his head again.

Sherlock's hand scrabbled and picked the fork back up. "Sorry, slipped. You're moving into new areas. That's nice, Mycroft."

"Yes, it is. . . satisfying." Mycroft looked back down at his plate and glided his fork through the last of his potatoes. "Perhaps, if you would like, I could discuss it with you later."

"Perhaps. Not too much, though. I just have a few cursory questions."

"Of course. I would never overwhelm you with the details. That would be inconsiderate and, to some, in poor taste."

"Certainly."

The nanny looked back and forth between them, seemingly confused at the civil exchange between the usually hostile siblings. She seemed to decide not to press the interaction, however, and said nothing.

Having finished their conversation, the trio finished their meal in relative silence, punctuated only by necessary formalities, such as "Please pass the salt," and "Thank you"s when the nanny cleared the table. As soon as possible, Sherlock excused himself and returned to his room, quickly followed by Mycroft. Mycroft shut the door to Sherlock's bedroom and leaned against it.

"What do you want to know?"

"You have a-"

"Yes."

"Boy or girl?"

"Really, Sherlock. Need I tell you such basic and deducible information?"

"Could be a girl."

"Balance of probability."

"What's his name, then?"

"Greg. He's majoring in criminal justice, and he's going to be a brilliant Detective Inspector when he graduates."

"Teaching him deductions?"

"As much as I can. What else? I'm sure this isn't simply a social conversation."

"Actually--" Sherlock paused, thinking through how he should present his problem to Mycroft. After deliberation and taking into account Mycroft's good mood and seeming new attitude on relationships, he decided to be as straightforward as possible. Which, all in all, was very forward but not very straight.

"John held my hand when we walked home yesterday."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "And this is a problem."

"Obviously."

"Why?"

Sherlock threw up his hands. How did Mycroft not see it immediately? "John has never showed any indication that he is attracted to men."

"You're both relatively young. This is the time when sexual orientation makes itself known. Just because John hasn't expressed any interest before, it doesn't mean he can't or doesn't feel it now."

Sherlock nodded. He hadn't thought about the bildungsroman aspect of it. He supposed Mycroft could be right.

"But it's summer break. His father's homophobic and so are a decent amount of people at our school."

"So call him. You two used to meet in the park plenty."

Sherlock's disposition soured slightly at the offhand mention of that lonely summer, but he returned to listening to Mycroft- something that rarely occurred.

"And as for the homophobia, I can see how that's an issue. I can't offer any true solutions, but know that I'll never allow any discrimination against either of you."

Sherlock nodded slowly. Mycroft was right, and for once, he had no problem admitting it. It was probably partially because Mycroft wasn't being smug- he actually appeared to genuinely care.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled, and his wings relaxed to his sides. 

"Any time, little brother." Mycroft left, closing the door behind him. After a moment, Sherlock left, located the house phone, and took it back to his room. He dialed John's number and said a silent prayer that John would pick up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i usually hate puns in fics but i couldn't resist the straightforward pun  
> bildungsroman is a coming-of-age novel, but i wanted a fancy word to go there  
> (if anyone was confused/unsure, yes, Mycroft is dating Lestrade)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i need 1722 words stupid skip day  
> this is also basically my whole nano now  
> oh yeah they straighten* things out in the park

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed internally with relief. "John. Can you meet me in the park tomorrow?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, I think so. Around one?"

"Sounds good."

"It's a date. See you then, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart flickered. "Yeah, yeah. See you then." He hung up before he could be any more awkward. He put the phone down and fell back on his bed. Tomorrow at one, he could ask John questions.

Ask John questions.

What questions?

He sat up and grabbed paper and a pen from his desk. What questions?

~~_What are we?_ ~~

~~_Are we dating?_ ~~

~~_Do you like men?_ ~~

~~_Do you like me?_ ~~

~~~~Each scribbled phrase was promptly slashed through with harsh lines. Nothing seemed right. He cautiously wrote "Are we dating?" again and hovered his pen over it, unsure of whether to scratch it out or not. In the end, he put a delicate thin line through it and wrote underneath,

_Do you want to date me?_

Perhaps. He tried to say it, wrap his lips around the syllables.

"Do you want to date me?"

He struck it through three times, nearly ripping through the paper. Why did nothing sound right?

~~_Do you have a crush on_ ~~

~~_I might have a crush on_ ~~

~~_I want to date_ ~~

~~_I like yo_ ~~

~~_What was the hand-holding about?_ ~~

That was an idea.

_Why did you hold my hand Friday?_

Not bad. Wasn't too straight to the point or accusatory- at least, it wouldn't be, if he pitched it right. Maybe if he placed his hand over John's- no, then what if John was just feeling protective and the hand-holding was an effect? Better not to, then.

Satisfied with his conversation starter, Sherlock clicked his pen and left his room to see what textbooks he could scrounge from Mycroft's backpack.

~

At the first rays of sunlight, Sherlock awoke. He was surprised he had slept at all for a moment, and then he looked at his chest. The thick weight lying on his chest was actually an English textbook. Typically, Sherlock didn't favor them, but it was all Mycroft had that he wasn't actively using. He had been reading an excerpt of Dickens- no wonder he had fallen asleep.

A glance out the window told him that it was not much before six, and his clock confirmed it: five-fifty.

Sherlock heaved himself out of bed, finding no use in staying there now that he was awake. However, he had very little to do before one (he actually planned on arriving around half past noon, but that was besides the point). He found the nanny and she made him a cuppa without being asked.

Sipping his drink, Sherlock went to find Mycroft. He was in his room, but not studying. He was on the phone, which was an extremely rare occurrence as far as Sherlock knew. Sherlock listened at the door, curious at the caller, although he had suspicions about who it was already.

"Yes, the interview is Wednesday."

"Yes, I got my suit dry-cleaned. Why do you even need to ask me that?"

"No, Sherlock has it right now. I'll call you when I get it back. There's plenty of time before the deadline, though. Don't stress."

"How was your match?"

There was a long pause with a few sporadic laughs, hums, and "Oh?"s.

"That's fantastic. I told you that you deserved captain."

"I'll watch every game when I come back."

"No, I can't come back now. I have the interview, remember? You were just bugging me about it. I'll be back in less than four weeks."

"I miss you too."

A pause.

Then, very gently, and very softly, with a tenderness Sherlock didn't know Mycroft even possessed, "I love you too."

"Okay. See you then. Bye, love."

Sherlock decided against his previous plan of interrupting and irritating Mycroft. In a strange urge of sentimentality, he left Mycroft alone and returned to his room with his now-cold cuppa.

~

Somehow, Sherlock made it to noon without collapsing from boredom. The nanny made him have a few biscuits before he left, but as soon as he was done he left and walked- as slowly as he could manage- to the park. He still arrived too early, and sat on a park bench to wait. To entertain himself, he practice deductions on passersby. Thirty-five minutes later, he noticed John walking toward him. His heartbeat sped up, seemingly unprovoked, as John got closer.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said.

"Hi," Sherlock said, and he thought his voice sounded a little breathless.

John sat down on the bench next to him. "What's up?"

"Ah-" he had the phrase, but he didn't know how to lead into it. "I wanted to ask you something."

John's wings tensed and simultaneously wilted over his shoulders. "Oh. Yeah? Yeah, that's fine."

"What, um-" he turned to face John more directly, then immediately regretted it and looked down, analyzing the pattern of the bench. "The- um. What was the-" With an unexpected burst of confidence, he spit out the phrase. "You held my hand Friday. Why?"

He glances up. John is looking away, downcast, and his wings are in the same position (devastated, awkward, ashamed).

"I'm sorry. I know you're not into that sort of stuff. I-"

Sherlock stopped listening. He was right. It had been a response elicited by protective instinct. John's voice, more panicked, cut through his thoughts.

"We can still be friends, I mean. Like, my feelings don't have to influence anything. It won't affect anything."

"What?"

John's wings jerked back (surprised. Why is he surprised?). "Did you stop listening?"

"Maybe."

"When did you tune out?"

"Somewhere around 'that sort of stuff'."

John sighed. "It would help if you actually listened, you know."

"Sorry."

"What I was saying was that-" John paused and gathered his breath. His wings drew back, mirroring his tense body language. "That I like you. And that's why I held your hand. So since you didn't like it-"

"Wrong."

"What?"

"I did like it. It's fine. I like you too."

"Okay, but-"

"I know exactly what you mean, John. I feel the same."

"Oh." John relaxed, seeming to process the information. His wings settled back and a smile graced his face, growing into a grin. "Okay."

Sherlock smiled, his own wings relaxing. He placed his hand over John's where it rested on the bench.

"So are we- are we dating?" That hadn't been on the list, Sherlock remembered. It still sounded awful to him.

John's smile stretched a little farther. His eyes practically glittered. "If you want to, yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."

"Okay." Sherlock grinned. He couldn't seem to be able to stop. "What does that include, exactly?"

"Whatever you want," John said. "We can figure it out as we go. It's all fine, Sherlock."

"That sounds- that sounds great."

John's hand flipped and laced with his. "That's good. I'm glad, love."

And "love"- the way that "love" slipped off John's tongue so easily. Sherlock felt stuck, paused in time, but in the best way possible. Like he was capturing this time and holding to him closely. Staying here was one of the best places Sherlock could pick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually like dickens ok  
> also i really like cute sentimental mycroft


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i need 401 more words to make up my nano deficit  
> does anyone remember the youtube glitch w/ 301 views that everyone was angry about?  
> i'm watching a lot of good mythical morning lately  
> oh and sherlock is v happy

The rest of their time in the park was spent on the bench, holding hands, sitting close and pressed thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. Sherlock deduced the passersby to John quietly, who laughed and pretended to scold him. He could feel John's laughter in his chest, and John's warmth on his side, and sometimes when John laughed he tilted his head onto Sherlock's shoulder and his hair brushed Sherlock's neck. It was blissful.

They stayed there until the sun brushed the horizon and yellow, orange, and pink streaks striped the navy sky. 

"I should get home," John said, shifting his palm against Sherlock's.

"Do you want to sleep over?"

John sighed. 

"I know, you've said that you've can't before. But I still want to ask."

"Harry's at her girlfriend's house tonight, and she's talking about staying there for the rest of the summer. I think my dad's blackout drunk by now. I could go check."

"Only if you won't get in trouble."

"I don't think I will, if my dad's as drunk as I think he is. Want to walk back with me?"

"Of course."

Together, they walked back to John's house in silence. They slowed as they approached John's house, listening for any indicative noises. There were none, so John left Sherlock half a block back so he could run into the house and get his bag. Less than five minutes later, John was back with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, bearing a huge grin.

"Passed out completely. Didn't even stir."

"Fantastic."

John took his hand and they walked back to Sherlock's house. A few feet from the front door, Sherlock dropped John's hand reluctantly.

"Mycroft mentioned something about the nanny," he explained. "I don't think she'll do anything, but I'd rather be safe."

"I understand," John said, a smile still lingering at the edges of his lips.

Sherlock opened the door and John followed him to his room.

"Are you hungry? We have food."

"I'm fine. Honestly, I'm just tired. I kinda just want to go to sleep."

"That works. We have a sleeping bag or- I do have a queen bed."

"Oh." John's wings ruffled. Startled. "Yeah, yeah, that's great."

Although they didn't know it yet, their routine before bed would be the first of many, starting that summer and continuing through upper school, university, and further life. But for now it was the nervous energy of two boys about to do something completely new for either of them focused into toothbrushes and washcloths. Once they had figured their way into bed together on opposite sides, Sherlock turned on his side as John did and they found themselves face to face.

"Hi," John said.

"Hi," Sherlock replied.

John brushed a stray curl from Sherlock's face and dropped his hand to the mattress between them. Sherlock's pinky layered over John's, connecting them even as they both drifted to sleep, smiles stuck on their faces. Now and then, either of them would twitch their pinky to continue to feel the small connection as the rest of their bodies numbed with sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's too late to be writing but i need something for nano dammit  
> written to TheRocketQueen90's "Creep" cover, but it's totally unrelated- except the overall feel (it's a v slow cover) is incorporated so idk  
> oh yeah lmao i'm american and try to use a few brit phrases but hmu if i use them wrong or have glaring american errors thx

Sherlock awoke around seven, unusually warm and refreshed. He was surprised he had actually fallen asleep- having John in his bed was absolutely remarkable. He looked gently at the boy in bed with him and smiled. The light filtering in through the window cast a golden sheen on John's tan visage. The typical stress lines that appeared on John's forehead were smoothed out and nonexistent, and the purplish bags under his eyes were flat and almost invisible. A small smile tugged up the corners of his mouth- not REM, then. Light sleep. He'll wake in a few minutes, half an hour on the outside.

John's arm was draped over Sherlock's side, and one of his wingtips brushed Sherlock's calf. Sherlock's own wings were folded at his back, and he felt a sluggish urge to do something with them, but they would make too much noise and would be likely to wake John. And God, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was wake John. Once John was awake, he'd get out of bed, leaving a sad warm patch next to Sherlock's body, and get home as fast as possible. The longer that he was asleep, the longer Sherlock could enjoy this peaceful silent accompaniment. John's even breathing lulled Sherlock into a sort of half-sleep, where his eyelids only pried themselves halfway open before dropping closed again. Everything was submerged in a transparent, warbling pool. It was blissfully unclear, calm, and quiet. Sherlock's brain had never felt so _quiet._

"Sh'l'ck?"

John's thick post-sleep voice made Sherlock's pool calm and refocus on his bedroom. His eyelids lost some of their burden and he opened his eys all the way.

"John." His own voice was deeper and rougher, he noticed.

"Goo' morning." A slow smile slid onto John's face, crinkling the outer corners of his eyes and making his blue irises gleam even brighter.

"Good morning." A saccharine smile matched John's on Sherlock's face.

The arm that had been resting on Sherlock's side removed itself and stretched, leaving a cool strip on Sherlock's torso. He must have made a face, because the arm was quickly replaced. Seemingly of its own accord, Sherlock's body shifted closer to John's.

It's the eyebrows, Sherlock decided when John's face somehow softened further as he moved a few centimeters closer to Sherlock. His eyebrows move minutely and his entire face looks different.

They were lying closer now, calves pressed together shyly, knees brushing with slow early-morning fidgets, thighs close enough to feel the heat of the other boy's. John's arm curled around Sherlock's back, hand resting on his spine just below his shoulder blades. It was secure, comforting, nice- if Sherlock had to wager a bet, he'd say this was what love felt like.

Sherlock's arm, which had been lying between their two bodies, now seemed confined and like it ought to be holding some part of John. In the end, he shifted it to John's hip. Immediately, the heat bled into his hand and he was shocked at the intensity of the feeling touching John gave him.

"You're beautiful," John said, not quite a whisper, but low enough to go undetected by anyone not in the immediate vicinity. Sherlock felt his eyes go wide, vaguely, while his mind reeled, stuttering out of its sleepy haze.

He knit his eyebrows. "I'm-"

"Beautiful," John repeated. "Handsome. Gorgeous. Stunning. To name a few." He smiles a litle wider, seeming to supress a little chuckle.

"No- no-one's ever-"

"Then no-one has eyes," John said. "Because you're clearly the hottest guy in school."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's you."

John pulled his head back in humorous incredulity. "Nah. Maybe a couple people think I'm a bit of an all right, but not the hottest guy in school by any stretch."

"Everyone in school has a crush on you. Don't you notice?"

"That's exaggerating. You're biased."

"Maybe a little. But I'm right."

John shook his head. "It's too early. We both think the other is more attractive. Glad we've got that cleared up."

Sherlock chuckled and fell silent. He wasn't used to having someone's gaze so wholeheartedly focused on him, and especially not in ill will. It wasn't bad, exactly. It was certainly softened by the fact that he could memorize every particle of John's face in return.

John moved closer, and then their foreheads were touching, and oh, oh, oh, this was more than he'd ever imagined. This was so much better. John's eyes looked like galaxies, black and endless but also colorful and vibrant.

"Can I kiss you?" And John did whisper this time.

Sherlock nodded just slightly. "Yes," he breathed.

John's lips were a little chapped, but they weren't unbearable. His morning breath was better than anticipated (although Sherlock hadn't had a lot of time to anticipate). His lips were almost unbearably gentle and pressed just the smallest bit before they were moving back, and Sherlock felt a little bit like he couldn't breathe and his chest was too small, especially in the upper-chest-heart region, and he should say something, what should he say, John's saying something-

"Sherlock? Sherlock, was that alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, a grin climbing up his face under still-closed eyes. He could breathe, then. That was good.

"Good. 'Cause I plan on doing a lot of that."

"How did I ever deserve such a fantastic boyfriend?" Sherlock asked, the question slipping out before he can filter. His eyes shot open, but John's were still soft, and if anything, kinder, but not pityingly.

"Kissing you constitutes as being a fantastic boyfriend? Get ready to be blown away then, Sherlock Holmes." There was humor in his voice, but also honesty.

"Consider me ready," Sherlock said.

There was a knock at the door. Both the boys started, hands drawing back and bodies separating.

"Don't bother," came Mycroft's voice from behind the door. "I certainly can't say anything."

John's arm replaced itself on Sherlock's side, and Sherlock's hand returned to John's hip.

"I just wanted to let you two know that breakfast will be ready in twenty minutes. Omlettes. Be dressed, please."

Footsteps receeded from the door, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

"Who was that?" John asked.

"My older brother Mycroft."

"He sounds cheery."

"He is more so, as of late. He has a boyfriend. His first boyfriend ever, as far as I know."

"How old is he?"

"Ninteen."

"Blimey. Really? Sorry, that's rude."

"No, it's fine. Mycroft always despised sentiment. The fact that he even has a boyfriend is remarkable. Not the boy part, clearly. But it's-" he paused. "Good for him, I think. He seems kinder. To himself and others."

"That's good. I suppose we ought to get dressed for breakfast, shall we?"

"We have a few minutes," Sherlock said, and John shuffled in so they were back to their original positons and kissed Sherlock's nose. Sherlock blushed, and John grinned, and they stayed in their sanctuary for the few minutes until it really was time for breakfast. When they sat down, Mycroft gave them both a once-over and an approving nod, and they each shared a look that completely baffled the nanny, who, again, decided not to press the behavior.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm still listening to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nV-Pt3RS8og  
> don't watch threadbanger while writing you'll get nothing done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had a different cute mycroft thing written but i didn't like it so

Sherlock locked himself in his room for the rest of the day. He buried himself in sheets that smelled slightly of John and waged war in his mind between joy and a bittersweet feeling that reeked of sadness, but wasn't, exactly. It was more of a wistfulness, laced with hope but soured by John's absence, the summer separating them, and the knowledge of John's father's sentiments. Images floated heavily through his mind, images that could only be classified as mawkish daydreams. He knew he was only in fourth form and  _future_ was a faraway, polymorphous thing that would change a thousand times before settling. Aching images of a flat in the middle of London that he could decorate-with John's opinions- as he liked. One bedroom and a kitchen that he could use as a lab. As the hours ticked by, he realized that he was bored, but in a vague, abstract way that took the form of a persistent dull nagging in the back of his mind that told him that he ought to be bored, but never solidified itself at the forefront of his priorities.

A knock at his door signaled Mycroft's presence.

"Dinnertime, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't bother responding.

His door eased open and Mycroft entered his room. The mattress depressed where Mycroft sat down.

"Sherlock," he said quietly. "It'll be alright."

"What do you know?"

"I am, as much as you hate to admit it, older than you."

"So what?"

"So I might know a thing or two more."

Sherlock sneered. "You're nineteen and just got your first boyfriend. What can you know?"

"What I've been taught in the past four and a half months."

Sherlock rolled over. Admitting his lack of knowledge about something was not a common occurrence for Mycroft.

"You've told be about the. . . situation. But it will improve. Before you ask me, I know because Gregory came from a similar home life to John's. And now he lives on his own and is control of his own life and- and he chose me. So I know, Sherlock, I do. Now come on, Alice made your favorite."

Sherlock reluctantly followed Mycroft out of his room, somewhat comforted by Mycroft's story.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1.4k words needed for today and i have a headache soo

It was the first time John had called him.

Sherlock stared at the phone in awe for a moment before snatching it up and answering.

"Hello?"

"Why the fuck are you calling my son?"

John's father's voice filled Sherlock's ear, and Sherlock blanched. He stuttered, not knowing what he could say that would make this better and what would make it worse.

"I- I-"

"Spit it the fuck out. Or else I don't want you fucking calling around here no more."

"I- He's my friend."

A congested, harsh noise crackled through the connection. "Friends don't call that fucking often. Leave him alone, fag. He doesn't care about you."

Sherlock dropped the phone, trembling hand clenching and unclenching at his side, less in violence and more in an effort to control its aggressive shaking. He could hear muffled crackly shouting from the phone, but couldn't make out any words. He waited until the phone went silent, then managed to pick it up and put it back on the hook. Numbly, he walked back to his room. Just seconds after he shut the door, Mycroft was knocking.

"Sherlock?" Careful. Cautious. Pity.

"Go away," Sherlock yelled. He threw a pillow at the door and it deflected with a satisfying thump. He shoved himself under his pillow, too tense to relish John's smell on the sheets. He didn't know what to do. Mycroft had gone away, at least. That was something. His wings trembled at his back, and he could feel the feathers brush and shake at his back. He wanted to rip them out. Stupid fucking black feathers. If they weren't black, he wouldn't have this issue. There wouldn't be an issue at all. 

~

Sherlock walked to the park early the next morning. He walked laps on the main path until his feet ached and the sun was high. He found the bench that he and John had figured it all out on and lay down on it, hooking his knees over one armrest and placing his head under the other. It felt like ages that he stayed there until a familiar voice alerted him.

"Sherlock?"

"John?" Sherlock sat up so quickly he nearly hit his head on the armrest. "What are you doing here?"

"My dad got ahold of the phone," he said, sitting down next to Sherlock. "And well, you know how that went."

"Yeah," Sherlock said. "How'd you get here?"

"He's passed out. I'm safe for a few hours." His wings shifted. Nervous. "Anyway, I hoped you would be here. I came to let you know, the rugby team has conditioning starting next week." A slight shift in his wings. Not nervous- anticipatory. Hopeful. "It's basically all day, but my dad thinks it's sleep away. I can stay at yours, if that's alright."

"Of course," Sherlock said, his own wings bunching up and moving excitedly as John grinned. "How long is it?"

"Almost three weeks long."

"That's fantastic. Erm, do you- do you want to teach me how to do the flying flip you can do?"

(He was referring to the flip that John had been teaching him before their days in the park tapered to an end.)

John's face lit up with an even wider smile. "Yeah, 'course. You'll get it this time."

They tumbled over the green grass for almost two hours and drew a small crowd of little kids, just like when they were younger. Sherlock couldn't stop grinning.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wait this is chapter 16???? holyshit when did that happen  
> also alice shouldn't be assumed to be white bc when i imagine her i'm kinda torn between her being black or indian/asian so tbh it's up to you

Before John could unofficially move in for the following few weeks, Sherlock did have to check with his nanny. He was a little fearful to bring it up, because of Mycroft's implication of her unfriendliness toward at least Mycroft's boyfriend. Alice was making dinner that night when Sherlock got up the nerve to ask her.

"Alice," he started, and she looked up from chopping onions. She had a unique talent for not crying that Sherlock secretly admired. "My friend, John- he- well, he has rugby camp. And- er, his dad's terrible. Do you mind if he stays here at nights for a while? He'll be at camp most of the day and all. Just- it'd be for a few weeks and I don't want you to mind."

Alice smiled. "Of course I don't mind. It's good for you to have friends, Sherlock. I was worried about you for a while, I'll confess. John's good for you- you seem happier."

"I am," Sherlock said quietly. "I am."

"Alright, shoo," Alice said. "I don't need you in the way while I'm cooking." But she was smiling a warm, gentle smile. Her wings- light, periwinkle blue- ruffled at her back. Encouraging. Proud.

~

Sherlock went to park every day until John got a chance to come by. It took almost four days- just as Sherlock was about to head home on the fourth day, he saw John jogging toward him.

"Sherlock, hey," he said, reaching him. "Sorry it took so long. Harry and my dad-"

"No need. I know. Alice said you could stay over, by the way."

A grin spread across John's face, making his eyes twinkle and his wings spread with joy. "Brilliant. That's brilliant. Um-" John pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and gave it to Sherlock. "Here's the address of the practices. You know, if you want to- er. If you want to watch."

"Of course. Thank you, John."

"No, thank you."

"The first one is Monday at eight. I'll stop by your house around seven? That's not too early, is it?"

"I wake up around six, so that's fine."

"Great."

They walked to the gate of the park, hand in hand, then reluctantly parted ways. Before John could get ten feet, though, Sherlock stopped him.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't wait." He blushed, embarrassed, and almost missed the beatific look on John's face.

"Me neither, love," John said. He reached his arm out, and Sherlock instinctively took his hand. John squeezed it, then let his hand slide out of Sherlock's grasp so he could walk home for the last time in weeks.


End file.
